When they say you have to love yourself first, before anyone else can love you, it’s just not true. I’ve had lots of boyfriends! And each of them has taught me something. From Joe I learned about architecture. From Steve I learned about music. From Anders I learned about art. From Gerard I learned about sadism and the finer points of Adobe Illustrator 1.7, which is also sadism. From Roger I learned to speak Swedish and identify mushrooms. From Bruce I learned that some people have webbed feet. What then, did I learn from Yakov?

Yakov: Russian form of “Jacob,” meaning “supplanter.”

“Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in’s tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.”
-William Shakespeare, The Tempest

Madonna, Cher, Pocohontas, Yakov. One sobriquet suffices to invoke a unique personality. Any additional information would only dilute its exquisite, one-of-a-kind power.

Now, imagine a young Matt Dillon, brought to a party at my loft by a designer friend, and create a compact version with a Russian accent, MacBook Pro, and an iPhone. Dress him in a black T-shirt, black Levi’s 501s, and black Converse Chuck Taylor All Star High Tops. And this is the most important part—shave his head completely bald.

Twelve years my junior, Yakov and I entered into a May-December relationship, wherein I played the part of a bleak December twilight and he, a lovely May morning. 

He’d made his ambitious way to New York’s School of Visual Arts via Moscow and Jerusalem, to take a typography class with the great graphic designer, Milton Glaser. He stayed, eventually finding work with a designer who was also an Orthodox rabbi, who helped Yakov find a tiny studio apartment in an otherwise all-Lubavitcher walkup building in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. 

At the time, this outer borough location seemed more foreign than Lick Skillet, Tennessee. A Manhattan snob like me wouldn’t be seen anywhere near this ultra-orthodox neighborhood, with its broad brim hats and unconvincing wigs. Now, of course, it’s a desirable address, where ethnicities and faiths and socioeconomic groups of all kinds can suffer the evils of gentrification together in perfect misery.

In this building, every single door sported a huge yellow poster: “THE MESSIAH IS COMING!  MOSHIACH IS COMING!” On the top floor, the farthest door had a tiny yellow Post-it, with the word “MESSIAH” written in pencil. I was enchanted. One Sunday night I slept over in Brooklyn. So, on Monday Yakov called in sick.  

We were lying naked on the futon when a key suddenly turned in a lock and the door burst open, bashing into my naked thigh. There, frozen in terror, stood a freakishly tall young Jew, lavishly bearded, outfitted in full Lubavitcher drag: payot, fedora, tefillin, the works. Emitting something between Rysanek’s glass-shattering “Sieglinde” scream at Bayreuth and an Elmer Fudd whimper, the apparition turned and ran, charging wildly down the stairs and out to Eastern Parkway. 

“What the hell was that?” was all I could say. 

“That was Budinsky.” 

“What’s a Budinsky?” 

“Well, he’s studying to be a rabbi and today’s his big day—he’s being ordained. He has my key. When I’m at work he uses my bathroom; he doesn’t like to share the communal showers with the other guys at the shul. For him, even fully clothed women are treyf. He can’t even sit next to one on a bus! What just happened is going to set him back ten thousand years. I’ll bet they’ll never ordain him now that he’s had a look at…you.”

Oy. My 2000 square foot Lower Manhattan loft seemed a more appropriate setting for our romance than Yakov’s Crown Heights broom closet. But there were challenges. 

Trichophobia is a fear of lint, fuzz, fluff, towels, hair, eyelashes, and dust. My beloved felines were given away. I stuffed rugs and sweaters into closets, ensuring smoother, fuzz-free cohabitation. I even hired a cleaning lady, newly arrived from Warsaw. She showed up an hour late in scarlet Dr. Denton’s footed pajamas, wielding a can of Comet and a Swiffer® Sweep + Vac™, and screaming, at the top of her voice, “I AM IOLA! I AM ARTIST! I HATE TO CLEAN!”  

One September afternoon, Budinsky phoned Yakov at the loft, but Yakov wasn’t home. 

I engaged the young rabbi in conversation. “You know, that was a pretty crazy thing that happened in Brooklyn, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“When you saw me. You know we made eye contact!”

That’s when Budinsky said, “I didn’t see no eyes!” 

To properly entertain Budinsky, I stocked up on plastic plates, cups, Coke and small bags of potato chips. Kosher edicts proscribed my filthy hands making contact with anything he would eat or touch. He’d often whine, “Why am I doing this Jew shit? I’m not even allowed to masturbate!” 

I liked him.

Yakov and I were both graphic designers. The disparity in our respective professional achievements, reputation and net worth was such that at one point I decided to devote the twelve hours a day that I normally reserve for my own career entirely to Yakov’s. This included a campaign of public relations that would have made Michael Ovitz look like a Vermont housewife and resulted in Yakov getting a Communication Arts magazine feature, a book deal, and an elite client roster that not unsurprisingly resembled my own. At one point I remember being concerned that by lending him the money to start his art magazine it might “damage our relationship” if this debt went unpaid. Why not just give him the money?

After a year and a half of qualified bliss, we broke up. In the middle of the devastating breakup fight, with me in tears, he brought his laundry over for me to wash.

A few weeks later I made the mistake of attending an Art Directors Club opening: “Young Guns: Designers Under Thirty.” I mentally added, “who have been nurtured, encouraged and supported financially by broken and obscure dowagers on the wrong side of forty.” 

Bravely, I approached Yakov to congratulate him on a prizewinning poster (from the 600 dollar silkscreen class I paid for) depicting my lamp from my bedroom and announcing a reading series at the coffee bar on my corner. 

If you have seen “All about Eve,” recall the lyrics to Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me,” or endured spinal cord surgery you will know the feeling. Eight ghoulish words escaped his lips. “This is my new girlfriend. Isn’t she cute?”

“Why yes, she’s adorable,” I concurred. Beside him was a diminutive Japanese nymphet of seventy-nine pounds. I took care not to crush this fresh, delicate blossom as she expressed reverence for this ancient, decrepit oak of design wisdom, as all young Japanese have been instructed. I managed to careen almost noiselessly out the door, narrowly escaping bodily collision with the 247 major art directors in attendance. 

This regrettable encounter marked the world premiere of a disturbing phenomenon, which has gone down in history as “Bald Male Pattern-ness,” or “The Recurring Yakov Response.”

Dear reader, permit me to present to you a theory. I submit that New York City in general, and Lower Manhattan in particular hosts a disproportionate number of inhabitants who prefer somber clothing, an all-black costume being not at all unusual. Are we agreed? Splendid. I would further postulate that one baldheaded guy dressed all in black resembles nothing so much as another baldheaded guy dressed all in black. Particularly from behind. 

This is the central tenet of my argument. 

I hope you have seen the Federico Fellini masterpiece, “Nights of Cabiria” (1957). It’s the story of a plucky little prostitute, played by Giulieta Masina, who believes she has at last found her true love, right up until the moment where he steals her pocketbook and attempts to throw her off a bridge. I have a tiny bucket that accompanies me to Cabiria screenings. At the Film Forum I was weeping noiselessly into it when I noticed an unmistakable profile in the third row; the smooth, rounded skull attractively adorned with a perfectly matched set of adorable, shell-like ears. I grabbed my bucket and bolted. 

That Thursday night at the Whitney, the ovoid vision, in its same inky outfit, repeated itself no less than eleven times. But when one appeared at Pinkberry, my sanity took a nosedive. A girl ought to feel safe at Pinkberry.

Further sightings occurred at Trader Joe’s, Equinox gym, and the Apple Store, but when one turned up at my great-aunt Ruth’s memorial at Temple Emanu-El, I began to question the veracity of the sightings. Any downtown street or alley featured a handful, if not a platoon, of Yakovs in black tee shirts and black Levi’s. Baldly texting, walking, or talking, holding their little black iPhones up to their little bald iHeads. 

My painstaking research reveals the following: Of 753,221 lower Manhattan residents, half are women, leaving 376,610 males. Of these, a staggering two thirds dress exclusively in black, and of these, one quarter, or 47,076, are either intentionally or unintentionally, bald.

I developed a rabid aversion to hard-boiled eggs, new potatoes, and studiously avoided bowling, billiards and ping-pong. I took care to avoid theaters, art galleries, and avenues or streets perpendicular or parallel to Canal, Houston, Fourteenth and Twenty-Third. Anywhere free wifi was offered, or fresh-brewed coffee was served, was off-limits as well. 

Flash forward, please.

Yakov has done very well for himself! Awhile back he published a mediocre design book, with a thoughtful dedication to powerful people in the design world; without exception, people I introduced him to. I see now that it’s available for $1.99, plus shipping. 

Things are looking up. Yakov’s put on weight, and no longer resembles anyone remotely cute. Even better, he’s not even young anymore.

With the passage of time, plus certain selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, I am regaining my composure. Also, though the black-clad-baldy trend has increased in the subsequent decades, at the time of this writing, the sightings have decreased from 67.3 Yakovs per week, to 22.4, calculated as of Wednesday. On closer inspection, however, comparatively few of these eggheads prove to be the genuine article. 

On the occasions where the original Yakov makes an appearance, usually accompanied by the above-mentioned female and their young, great care is taken not to disturb them, particularly during mating season.

As the New Year approaches, I ask myself what I have learned from this experience with Yakov. Let me put it this way: my future partner must be at least seven feet tall, with long pink pigtails, an eye patch, handlebar moustache, facial tattoos, and hunchbacked. Additionally, he must dress exclusively in yellow and speak with an Icelandic accent. Thus, when we two are no longer as one, he will, at least, stand out in a crowd. A crowd of Yakovs.

***

Laurie Rosenwald is a painter. In spite of this, she has done hundreds of illustrations for The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Atlantic and The Wall Street Journal, among other publications, and designed posters, typefaces, book jackets, logos, and some terribly, terribly important shopping bags for Fiorucci and Bloomingdale’s.

She has written “All the Wrong People Have Self-Esteem,” (Bloomsbury, 2008) a stellar year for publishing, the economy, and sarcasm, “New York Notebook” (Chronicle), and “And to Name but Just a Few: Red, Yellow, Green, Blue” (Blue Apple).

She speaks Swedish like a native New Yorker and has never used an emoji. Her illustrated “Memwah” is finally finished. It is the only book you and your family will ever need. You can find more of her work on Instagram @rosenworld and Medium.